by Rhys Bowen
“Of course, I have. She fancies him. But, unfortunately, he doesn’t fancy her. I mean, darling, who would?” She gave a bright laugh. Then she became serious again. “There have to be better digs somewhere nearby. I’d ask my family if we have any connections around here, but I can’t reveal where I am. I shall be furious if I find an aged uncle is living five miles away in a stately home and eating pheasant three times a week.” She slipped her arm through Pamela’s. “All right. Let’s go down and face the music, or rather face the boiled cod. Then we’ll go and get that pint. My treat.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
At home and abroad with Ben
Back home after his visit to London, Ben felt uncomfortable about searching Miss Gumble’s room. It wouldn’t be too hard, he realised. She’d likely be with Phoebe, giving her lessons during the morning. But all the same, there was a tremendous risk: Everyone in the house knew him. If he bumped into any member of the family, he’d have to come up with a reason for being there and possibly be taken into the house for tea. If he were seen going up the steps to the flat over the stables, he’d have to explain himself. Then his father came into the room, looking up in surprise to see Ben there.
“Oh, you’ve come back. I thought you were off to London?”
“Just for a meeting,” Ben said. “In fact, I have to go away for a few days. Up north.”
“What on earth would you be doing up north?” his father asked. “I thought you worked in an office.”
“Oh, I do. I do,” Ben said hastily. “But I’ve been asked to deliver some papers personally to a research station. You can’t be too careful these days. Mail could be intercepted.”
“Really? Surely not. The British post office is a reliable institution.”
“You never know, Dad. German sympathisers are supposed to have infiltrated all over the place.”
“That’s just scaremonger talk. I believe it’s put out by the enemy to drive fear into our hearts. Make us suspicious of each other. Think that Germans are landing every day. You know half the village believes that the poor man whose parachute didn’t open was a German spy. Utter rubbish. He was wearing an English soldier’s uniform. I saw him myself. A tragic accident, that’s what it was.”
“Probably,” Ben said. “So I’ll be gone for a couple of days, then I may be coming home again, maybe not, depending on my department head.”
Reverend Cresswell looked around. “Now I’m trying to remember what I came in here for. My mind is like a sieve these days. Oh, I know. Book on birds. There’s an owl’s nest in that big elm, and I rather think it’s a screech owl. I caught a glimpse of it at twilight, but I wanted to be sure.”
A brilliant idea came to Ben. Miss Gumble’s telescope. He could ask to borrow it for his father. Perfect. He packed an overnight suitcase ready for his trip, then cycled over to Farleigh. As he rode up the drive, he had to pull over to the side while a convoy of army lorries drove past, and the enforced wait brought back his doubts. If he asked Miss Gumble to borrow her telescope, she’d probably go and get it for him. She wouldn’t want him in her room, especially if she had something to hide. But if he went up to her room without her permission and was seen, she’d hear about it and there could be a fuss.
“Damn it,” he muttered. He wasn’t cut out to be a spy. He thought of those chaps who were being sent to rescue Margot Sutton from the hands of the Gestapo and how stupid he must have sounded volunteering for such a job. Margot must have nerves of steel to be receiving and delivering radio messages in occupied Paris. He remembered he’d always been a little in awe of her—she was several years older than Pamma and sophisticated and glamorous, even as a teenager. But surely it had always been Pamma who was the brave one, the one who climbed trees and accepted dares. He felt a great wave of relief that it wasn’t Pamma who was in Paris now, waiting to be rescued. Because the chance of a successful rescue from German headquarters in an occupied country must be pretty slim. It was likely that they’d all end up dead. He wondered if Lord and Lady Westerham could have any idea that their child was in such danger and how difficult it was that everybody had to keep secrets.
The last lorry in the convoy passed. Ben continued his ride up to the house. He saw that panels of plywood were being unloaded and carried up the steps. Presumably repairs for the roof. The place was busy with soldiers, which enabled him to slip past unnoticed and reach the stable yard. He went up the steps and tapped on her door, just in case she wasn’t at lessons with Phoebe. Then he tried the handle and pushed. The room seemed to be locked.
“Damn,” he muttered and put his shoulder to the door. It swung open, and he was in Miss Gumble’s room. His heart was beating fast as he looked around and saw the telescope lying on top of one of the piles. A radio. That’s what he was looking for. And any incriminating papers. The room was tiny, and he went through the piles of books and her few possessions quite quickly. But no sign of a radio.
He certainly hadn’t seen a radio among her things in the stable room. He wondered if he dared go up to her turret to see if there might be a radio hidden there somewhere. An excuse, that’s what he needed. He remembered that he’d been wearing his dinner jacket. Yes, that would work. He went back around to the front steps, into the house and up the two flights to the top floor. Nobody stopped him until he came to the spiral stair leading to Miss Gumble’s turret. Several soldiers were trying to manoeuvre a sheet of plywood up the narrow stair. One of them turned to see Ben.
“Can I help you with something, sir?” he asked. “As you can see, we’re rather occupied up here now, and I’d appreciate it if you went downstairs again.”
“It’s just that I was the one who rescued the lady from that turret room,” he said. “And I was wearing my dinner jacket, and I lost one of my gold cuff links. So I wondered if I might take a quick look. It has rather a sentimental value.”
The officer nodded. “Of course, sir. Hold up, men. Let the gentleman past.”
Ben hurried up the stair. The room was a sorry mess with plaster lying across the floor and blackened stains on the walls. It still smelled of smoke. Ben picked his way around, examining under the bed, the window seat, looking for any loose floorboards, but found nothing. He was forced to retreat. If she had a radio, either it was well hidden or she’d spirited it away.
There was nothing to do but to complete his assignment to the battle sites in the north of England and see if any clue became obvious when he was there. He retrieved his bike and rode home without encountering anyone he knew. Then he walked to the station and caught the train up to London.
That afternoon, right after tea, Lady Phoebe slipped out of the house and made her way down to the gamekeeper’s lodge. Mrs. Robbins looked like a different person, much older, with hollow eyes and an almost dazed expression.
“He’s in there, your ladyship,” she said in a flat voice. “Go on through if you like.”
Phoebe had forgotten for the moment that the Robbinses’ son had been reported missing. She wondered if she should say something but couldn’t think of the right thing, so she merely smiled and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Robbins.”
She went into the kitchen and found Alfie eating a piece of bread and jam. He looked up and grinned when he saw her.
“You and I have to talk,” she said. “Leave that and come where we can’t be overheard.”
Alfie followed her outside, and they walked some distance from the cottage before she said, “We have to get a move on with our sleuthing. There have been developments.”
“There have?”
She nodded. “You must have heard our house was bombed.”
“Yes. I know. Bloomin’ awful.”
“Well, I’ve started thinking—about our parachutist, you know. Why bomb Farleigh?”
“Well, there’s a ruddy lot of soldiers staying there, you know.” He grinned.
“All right. That would be one reason. But what if there was another?”
“Like what?”
“S
omeone or something at Farleigh should be destroyed. Do you know Mr. Cresswell, the vicar’s son?” Alfie nodded. “He was there the night of the fire. He rescued me and my governess. Jolly brave, actually. But he was interested that Miss Gumble had a telescope. And today I was up in the schoolroom, and I happened to look out of the window and I saw him going around to the stable yard, which is where Miss Gumble is staying at the moment. So it made me wonder whether he suspects anything funny is going on. Or”—and she paused—“whether he might have something to do with that parachuting man himself.”
“What do you mean?” Alfie asked.
“I mean I know he was injured in that plane crash before the war, but why isn’t he in the army or something? He’s the sort of person who might want the Germans to take over. He’s the quiet and sneaky type, just the sort they might use. So I think you and I should get cracking. I know he went to the station, but if he comes back, we need to keep an eye on him. And I’ll snoop around the house to see if there is anything suspicious there. You snoop around the village to see if you can come up with anything suspicious. All right?”
“All right,” he said, “although I have been listening to people talking. Some of them think that German bloke staying with the doctor might be a spy.”
“But he’s Jewish and Austrian. He fled from the Nazis.”
“So he says.” Alfie grinned again. “But I’ll do my best. I tell you who I think might be right dodgy—Baxters the builders—have you noticed the gates to their yard are always shut, and the fence is so high you can’t see in?”
“Probably so no one can sneak in and steal their supplies,” Phoebe said.
“Yeah, but it’s more than that,” Alfie said. “I watched Baxter’s van drive out the other day. And someone closed the gate the moment the van went through, and young Mr. Baxter was driving and he saw me standing there and he shouted, “What are you staring at? Go on, hop it.”
“So you’ll do some snooping on the Baxters’ yard? Excellent,” Phoebe said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this mystery, you’ll see, Alfie. We’ll surprise them all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Paris
Margot sat in the window at the Ritz hotel and stared out at the street. Her finger still throbbed and welled blood, but it was the other hurt that was more painful. That woman. That is what he had called her. He had looked at her with no emotion on his face at all. She was not his beloved. He didn’t care for her at all. She had risked her life by staying on in Paris when she could have been safely at home. And she had never had any chance of saving him. The Germans had been using her, pushing her into a position where she would agree to do their bidding, all for nothing.
What a fool I’ve been, she thought. She might be going home, but only to aid the enemy. If she didn’t, then someone on the spot would surely kill either her or a member of her family. Now that she had actually seen them in action, she was sure that they would have no qualms about dispatching her. She didn’t yet know what her assignment would be, but it would presumably have something to do with the fact that she was an aristocrat, that she mixed in the highest circles. She shivered and held her wounded hand up to her breast.
“I must commend you,” Herr Dinkslager had said as they drove away from Gestapo headquarters on Avenue Foch. “You were very brave. Exactly what I would have expected from one of England’s oldest families. I must apologise about your finger. I think you’ll find there is no lasting damage. I’m sure you must realise that it was a necessity.”
She had said nothing but stared out the window.
“You’ll need some training first,” Herr Dinkslager said. “So, for the moment, I think we’ll leave you at the Ritz. Might as well make the most of the good food and wine, eh?”
He was chatting with her again as if they had been for a drive in the country—not like he had just rammed a wedge under her fingernail. He had been prepared to do the same to the rest of her fingers, and to let the young soldier rape her if he thought it might have achieved results. What kind of man can act like that? she wondered. To behave with a façade of civilisation, yet calmly torture and kill. Does he never think about his wife, his children, his sisters at home, and imagine such horrors happening to them?
They pulled up in front of the Ritz, and he escorted her inside. Gigi Armande’s suite was unoccupied. “I’ll have someone come up with a bandage for that finger,” he said. “And I’ll arrange for your training to begin tomorrow.”
Now she sat there alone, a prisoner, waiting for doom to fall. There must be something I can do, she thought. A way out over the roof, through the servants’ quarters. A ridiculous thought came to her: What if I just opened the door and walked down the hall, down the stairs and to freedom? She crossed the room and opened the door. At the sound, a German soldier standing guard by the stairs turned to stare at her. Not that way then.
She toyed with another thought. She could request something from room service. If a woman delivered it, she could overpower her, tie her up, steal her uniform, and escape that way. The idea was intriguing, but she took it one stage further. If that person struggled and fought back, could she kill her if necessary? Margot shuddered. Killing was different from tying up. But she couldn’t just sit here. She picked up the telephone and found that it was dead. At that moment, Gigi Armande walked in. Margot looked up like a guilty child.
“I was trying to order a glass of wine,” she said.
Armande smiled. “There is a little man at the front desk who switches on the telephone when he sees me, for security’s sake. Now, what was it you wanted?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Margot said, moving away.
“But of course it does. I heard something about the little incident this afternoon. Did you have a cognac? So good for steadying the nerves.” Margot shook her head. “But they took care of your poor hand?” She saw the bandage. “So uncivilised of them. I’ll tell Spatzi—I mean Herr Dinkslager, when I talk to him next. That is not the way he behaves with my protégées, not if he wants a new frock for his wife.”
She came across and picked up Margot’s bandaged finger. “You must do what they say, ma chérie. We have to play along with them if we want to survive. I gather they want to send you home. Please don’t be noble. Do what they ask, and you’ll be safe and with your family.”
Margot nodded. She had a horrible feeling that she might break down and cry if she opened her mouth to speak. Madame Armande being kind to her was a last straw when she had been at the breaking point for hours.
Armande picked up the phone and calmly ordered smoked salmon, a bottle of Chablis, and a large cognac. Then she replaced the receiver and smiled at Margot. “All will be well,” she said.
“How can it?” Margot said bleakly.
Armande came over and put an arm around Margot’s shoulder. “He is very noble, that Gaston of yours. A credit to France.”
“What do you mean?” Margot looked up sharply. “He let them torture me. Do you call that noble?”
Armande smiled. “He will not betray the Resistance, whatever happens. I heard what he said about you. That you were nothing to him. I know men, ma chérie. I have been with a great many men. He was making sure they left you alone.”
“Making sure?” Margot said angrily. “He said they could chop me into little pieces for all he cared.”
“But, naturally.” Armande gave that very Gallic shrug. “Don’t you see? That was the only way to let you go. If he did not care one iota about you, then torturing you could have no effect on him. And it also had an added benefit in that it made you agree to do what the German schemers wanted. Now you will be their puppet.”
Margot looked up at her suspiciously. “You seem to know an awful lot. You’re working secretly with them, I suppose?”
“Darling, I don’t work with anybody,” Armande said. “But I am Spatzi’s mistress, as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now. How else do you think I live at the Ritz and come and go as I please? And yes, I confess I wa
s part of that little drama when you were first brought in. But only because I cared about you and wanted you to stay alive.”
“Then you’ll know what they want me to do in England?”
Gigi Armande shrugged. “Not exactly. I don’t expect you will be told until you have contacted the right person over there.”
“But they will want to use my position in society to kill somebody, don’t you think? Somebody important. A member of the royal family, maybe?”
Armande shrugged again. “I tell you in all honesty that I do not know. But I do say that you must pretend to go along with them, until the very last.”
“I never could have saved Gaston, could I?” Margot asked in a small voice.
“Highly unlikely, I admit,” Armande answered.
Margot’s suspicions were confirmed when she was taken to a shooting range the next day. She had been on pheasant shoots and was actually a good shot, but she tried to appear awkward and clumsy with a gun. Anything to give her time.
“You must do better, fräulein,” the German officer in charge of her said.
“I’m afraid it still hurts me to hold a gun,” she said. “You’ll have to wait for my finger to heal.”
“There is no time to wait,” he said. “You are needed over there for an immediate assignment. Now try again. We are not leaving until you have hit the centre of the mark five times in a row.”
More intense days had followed. More things to be memorised. Code words to be understood. And veiled threats made. She would be watched at all times. Her family would be watched. She had no idea how many agents were now working in Britain, but she would be doing a good thing for her countrymen. The conclusion was inevitable. The invasion would happen. But she could speed it along and save Britain from more misery.
Then, on the third day, she had just returned from her training and Gigi was still out at her salon when there was a hammering on the door. She opened it, and two strange German officers strode in.